At this point I began to be troubled.  It seemed, from reasonable ciphering, that I should soon be a millionaire.  It made me feel solemn and anxious.  I lay awake at night, praying that I might not be spoiled by my good fortune.  The scriptures that speak of the deceitfulness of riches were called to mind, and I rejoiced with trembling.  Many beneficent enterprises were planned, principally in the line of endowing colleges, and paying church-debts. (I had had an experience in this line.) There were further delays, and more money was called for.  The ores were rebellious, and our “process” did not suit them.  Fryborg and Deep Spring Valley were not the same.  A new superintendent—­one that understood rebellious ores—­was employed at a higher salary.  He reported that all was right, and that we might expect “big news” in a few days, as he proposed to crush about seventy tons of the best rock, “by a new and improved process.”

The board held frequent meetings, and in view of the nearness of great results did not hesitate to meet the requisitions made for further outlays of money.  They resolved to pursue a prudent but vigorous policy in developing the vast property when the mill should be fairly in operation.

All this time I felt an undercurrent of anxiety lest I might sustain spiritual loss by my sudden accession to great wealth, and continued to fortify myself with good resolutions.

As a matter of special caution, I sent for a parcel of the ore, and had a private assay made of it.  The assay was good.

The new superintendent notified us that on a certain date we might look for a report of the result of the first great crushing and cleanup of the seventy tons of rock.  The day came.  On Kearny street I met one of the stockholders—­a careful Presbyterian brother, who loved money.  He had a solemn look, and was walking slowly, as if in deep thought.  Lifting his eyes as we met, he saw me, and spoke: 

“It is lead!”

“What is lead?”

“Our silver mine in Deep Spring Valley.”

Yes; from the seventy tons of rock we got eleven dollars in silver, and about fifty pounds of as good lead as was ever molded into bullets.

The board held a meeting the next evening.  It was a solemn one.  The fifty-pound bar of lead was placed in the midst, and was eyed reproachfully.  I resigned my trusteeship, and they saw me not again.  That was my first and last mining speculation.  It failed somehow—­but the assays were all very good.

Mike Reese.

I had business with him, and went at a business hour.  No introduction was needed, for he had been my landlord, and no tenant of his ever had reason to complain that he did not get a visit from him, in person or by proxy, at least once a month.  He was a punctual man—­as a collector of what was due him.  Seeing that he was intently engaged, I paused and looked at him.  A man of huge frame, with enormous hands and feet,